BELIEVING RORY BLOG TOUR STOP AND PROMO POST!

HELLO FRIENDS, BELOW IS MY BLOG TOUR STOP AND PROMO POST OF BELIEVING RORY BY S.C. WYNNE! I LOVE THIS BOOK SO FAR AND YOU WILL FOR SURE SEE A REVIEW FROM ME ABOUT IT VERY SOON! TRUST ME, IT'S AMAZING!! NOW FOR TONS AND INFO AND LINKS FOR THE BOOK! ENJOY GUYS, AND USE THOSE LINKS! IF I AM NOT EVEN DONE WITH THE BOOK AND WANT YOU TO READ IT, YOU KNOW IT'S GOOD!!!

TITLE:
Believing Rory

AUTHOR:
S.C. Wynne

PUBLISHER:Dreamspinner
Press

COVER
ARTIST: Garrett Leigh

LENGTH:
200 Pages

RELEASE
DATE: April 29, 2016

BLURB:
Will Rory bring them together or stand between them?

Eighteen-year-old Lane
Graham has always relied on his braver, more confident buddy, Rory. But Rory’s
sudden suicide blindsides Lane and sends him into an emotional tailspin. How’s
he supposed to start college in a few months feeling this damaged?

Baron MacDonald knew
Rory from playing League of Legends together. He was always intrigued by Lane’s
online presence, and Rory had promised to set them up. Now that Rory’s gone,
Baron has to approach Lane on his own.

On the surface, Baron and
Lane couldn’t seem more different. Baron is confident and serious, and Lane is
guarded and uncertain. But it’s the pain beneath the flesh that binds these two
souls together like barbed wire and cement.

I guess I’m the stupid
one for believing Rory.

I’m angry at him. I
know there’s no point in that, because not only is he nowhere around to feel my
wrath, he wouldn’t care if he was. Rory always went his own way. I needed him
more than he needed me. Obviously. He proved that when he leapt into the great
unknown without me. I can barely handle staying in my old familiar life,
untethered from him.

Is it weird that my
skin hurts? I’m so depressed my flesh actually aches. The ends of my hair feel
sensitive as I watch Mrs. Greg approach with my math test in her hand. A bright
red C sits at the top right of the paper. Thank God, I passed. My mom would
take away my laptop if I fuck up in school again. Especially this close to
graduation.

“I expected more from
you, Lane.” Mrs. Greg sniffs and adjusts her black-rimmed glasses farther up
the bridge of her nose.

I take my paper,
feeling the eyes of the class on me. They probably all think I’m stupid. I’m
not. I wonder how well they’d do on a math test if their best friend died the
day before. I think a C was just fine, considering. Obviously I’m the only one
who thinks that way since Mrs. Greg is still giving me a disapproving look, and
the redheaded girl next to me is shaking her head. I want to skip ahead to
lunch where I can tell Rory about how judgmental they’re all being. He’d rub my
head and tell me to relax. You’re overthinking things again, L, he’d say with
his white grin splitting his face.

But Rory’s dead.

My stomach rolls and I
stand abruptly, knocking into my desk. “May I go to the bathroom?” Mrs. Greg
hates letting kids go during class. But there must be something in my
expression that softens her. Or maybe she just doesn’t want me throwing up in
her classroom.

“Don’t be long.” She
hands me the key with a huge wooden plaque attached.

I jangle my way through
the hall and hurry to the bathroom. I slam into the stall and unload everything
in my stomach. Then I sit breathing like a racehorse, with tears streaking down
my cheeks. I don’t know what to do with all the rage I feel toward Rory. It
feels like it’s eating me from the inside. I want to punch something. But
instead I sit in a pathetic, crumpled heap, sobbing onto the wooden plaque with
a key attached.

The bathroom door
squeaks open and two guys come in. They’re laughing and fooling around. There
are two stalls, and I’m occupying one. I peer under the fiberboard walls and
glimpse expensive orange and black hi-tops. One person takes a piss while the
other guy talks to him. I scramble to my feet and, keeping my gaze averted, go
to the sink area and splash cold water on my cheeks. The guy waiting shuts up
finally, and takes the stall I just left, as the other person comes around the
corner and stops when he sees me. Then he continues on to wash his hands. Good
bathroom manners. It’s a rarity among high school boys.

“Hey,” the guy says.
He’s blond with spiky hair and the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. He’s watching me
like he expects a response. Of course he would. Anyone well-bred enough to wash
their hands after peeing expects a response when they speak to you.

“I have permission to
be here.” I don’t know why I say that. We aren’t in prison, although sometimes
it feels that way.

“Are you okay?” He
sounds genuinely concerned.

Of course not, I want
to scream. But instead I drop my gaze and turn to the door. “Is anybody?” I say
finally as I leave.

Lunch is torture. If
you’re dumb enough to only have one real friend to sit with, it kind of leaves
you in the lurch if he kills himself. I’m not hugely popular. I’m not actually
unpopular either. I’m one of those invisible kids who flits through the school
years not leaving much of a mark on anything. God, maybe Mrs. Greg and that
redheaded girl are right, and I am pathetic.

Somebody punches my
shoulder. Wincing, I look up from my yogurt to find Mason Price standing over
me. He’s the school clown. His talent surpasses just class clown. “I’m sorry
about Rory,” he says gruffly.

He’s the only person
who has even said a word about Rory dying. I’d have never expected such
compassion from someone who sticks straws up his nose for a laugh.

“Thanks,” I say.

He punches my shoulder
again and moves off. I guess hitting me makes him feel like less of a wimp when
he offers me sympathy. I rub my shoulder and watch him join his friends.
Someone plops a tray down across from me. Judy from science class has decided I
need a pep talk. She has her hair dyed pink, with purple tips. Her makeup is
similar to an anime character’s with thick eyeliner, and long fake lashes. She
pops open her grape soda while staring at me. The color of the can matches the
ends of her hair.

“You should have taken
today off.” Her voice is gently chiding.

I stare at her
wordlessly. If it were up to me, I’d take the rest of the school year off. But
my mom wasn’t having any of it. She screeched at me until I was dressed and in
the car. I didn’t have the energy to fight her. I just did as she said and now
here I sit with my yogurt.

“There’s a suicide
support group on campus. You should probably go.”

I wrinkle my brow and
just watch her.

“Not that you’re going
to hurt yourself. But they help the people left behind too.” She gulps her
soda, her throat muscles moving up and down with each swallow.

Left behind. Fucking
Rory left me behind.

“I’ll take it under
consideration.” Wow. That was oddly formal. What, am I running for Congress or
something? I’m finding it impossible to be normal. Well, my normal.

Her brown,
makeup-enhanced eyes soften. “Rory was a dick.”

I should slap her for
defaming my beloved friend. My lifelong buddy who jumped off a parking
structure and left me all alone to face this fucked-up world. I’d rather hit
Rory.

I nod.

She crunches her way
through a bag of chips as she continues to study me like I’m bacteria lying in
a petri dish. Then she says, “You can always talk to me if you want. I know
you’re shy, so maybe a big group thing isn’t for you.”

Why does she care? I’ve
had maybe three conversations with her in the four years of high school. Is she
a psych major? Maybe that’s it. They love psychoanalyzing everyone. It makes
them feel less crazy.

Somebody has carved
their name into the top of the table along with a heart. Steve + Sally 4-ever.
I trace my finger into the grooves, wondering if their undying love has
survived high school. Steve would never off himself and leave Sally alone. The
table wiggles and I notice Judy is getting up to leave.

“See you in class, I
guess.” She wanders away into the crowd of students. She’s still easy to spot
with her pink hair, though. Maybe that’s the point.

S.C. Wynne started writing m/m in 2013 and did look back once. She wanted to say that because it seems everyone's bio says they never looked back and, well S.C. Wynne is all about the joke. She loves writing m/m and her characters are usually a little jaded, funny and ultimately redeemed through love.

S.C loves red wine, margaritas and Seven and Seven's. Yes, apparently S.C. Wynne is incredibly thirsty. S.C. Wynne loves the rain and should really live in Seattle but instead has landed in sunny, sunny, unbelievably sunny California. Writing is the best profession she could have chosen because S.C. is a little bit of a control freak. To sit in her pajamas all day and pound the keys of her laptop controlling the every thought and emotion of the characters she invents is a dream come true.

If you'd like to contact S.C. Wynne she is amusing herself on Facebook at all hours of the day or you can contact her at scwynne@dslextreme.com

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